A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  My hand trembles in my lap. Dad in Karachi? How is that even possible? Wouldn’t I have felt his presence when I drove the streets from the airport? Wouldn’t my heart have leaped at sharing the same space as him?

  Nana harrumphs like a horse with a mouthful of tea, and I strain for more of anything. More details. More answers to the buzzing questions in my brain. But there is silence, neither father nor daughter in the mood for much conversation. The delicate tinkling sound of teacup against saucer echoes loudly around me, jarring my nerves.

  “Checkmate!” Nana announces in triumph. I lean back, loosening my grip on the arms of the chair I’ve been sitting on. “You don’t usually play this badly,” he adds, but he says it kindly, as a joke.

  I grin—maybe—and stand up. “I have to pee,” I tell him, uncaring that this is not a word one uses in polite Pakistani company. Mom had told me so on the plane to Karachi. Don’t use words like poop and pee and fart, please, in front of your grandparents. It had sounded hilarious at the time, but now I suddenly wonder if she was just trying to calm her own nerves with such advice.

  In the bathroom off the hallway, I stare at my pale face in the mirror. My pink T-shirt says I’M FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE. NOW LEAVE. which is so off-point it’s aggravating. Zoe gave it to me at the end of fifth grade as a hooray-we-finished-elementary-school gift. I got her nothing, mainly because I didn’t know giving presents on the last day of school was a thing.

  “I’m pathetic,” I tell myself severely in the mirror. “Dad’s been in Karachi all this time and I didn’t even know.”

  “Your T-shirts often lie—do you know that?” Sakina’s reflection joins mine in the mirror, and we stand silently together in the tiny bathroom side by side. She’s darker than I am, a true Pakistani. I’m half-and-half, making the chai weaker and less authentic.

  “I’m fine,” I insist, but my red eyes mock me.

  “Who was your grandfather talking about?” she asks.

  I want to tell her to mind her own business. But her face is actually concerned, her cheeks puffed in a way I’ve seen before, when Nani is shouting at her or her abba is feeling ill. I sigh and sink down on the edge of the bathtub. “My dad . . . my father.”

  “He’s not back home?” She looks confused, as if the thought of a father not left behind weeping as a daughter goes to another continent for vacation is unheard of. “Where is he?”

  I realize that Sakina knows almost nothing about me. Most people don’t. It’s usually difficult for me to tell others about Dad, but her face is just the right amount of worried without being even a tiny bit nosy. I want to tell her the truth. “He left us when I was five years old. I know he moves around a lot because of his job, but I’ve tried to keep track of him all these years.”

  I stop, thinking of my late-night Google searches every few months, the world map I keep in the back of my closet with red dots on the countries he’s reported from over the years. Tanzania. Iraq. Mali. Libya. Wherever there is conflict and war, my dad is there, like a brave warrior.

  “And?” Sakina prompts.

  I blink, and my voice slows. “And . . . Nana just dropped the bombshell that Dad’s right here in Karachi!”

  She digests this carefully. I can see her forming the words with her mouth, making sense of them. “What is he doing here?”

  This is suddenly a good question. “He’s a journalist. He writes news stories for the paper.” I stand up so suddenly I almost shove Sakina into the wall. “I need to find out what paper! Can you get me old newspapers or something? Can you help me?”

  She straightens up, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I . . . don’t . . .”

  I grab her arm. “Come on! I’m helping you with your English, aren’t I? You can help me too!”

  “I can get in trouble right now for not preparing tonight’s dinner in the kitchen,” she whispers loudly. “Why don’t you just use the internet?”

  I make a pleading face. “It’s not been working since last week. Nana said the cable was cut by thieves and they’re waiting to get it fixed.”

  Sakina grumbles under her breath about hooligans on the streets, then asks, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, what’s the biggest English newspaper? Surely you must know that!”

  She bites her lip as if I’ve asked her a very difficult question. “There are so many. Dawn, the News, the Express Tribune . . .” Her voice trails off as if she’s said too much.

  I rush past her, out of the bathroom, and upstairs to my room. The door is open. Mom is standing inside with her arms crossed over her chest as if she’s prepared for battle. Too late.

  “I guess you heard,” she says, closing the door behind me.

  I pace the room, ready to fight. “About what? About the fact that everyone knows more about Dad than I do? Like the fact that he’s been in Pakistan the whole time and I didn’t even know. Like . . .”

  I want to scream, but my voice wobbles and my throat is tight. I will not cry, I tell myself. I stop talking and take deep breaths. Crying is not a good look for me.

  Mom unfolds her arms and walks toward me. “Oh, kiddo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to know.”

  The tightness in my throat disperses. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I shout. “How can you keep this a secret from me? You have no right to—”

  Oops. She’s mad now too. “I do have a right, Mimi! I’m your mother. That man left us with no thought of you or me, or anyone else except himself. He got a call about an assignment in Afghanistan—or Iraq, or someplace with a war—and he packed up and left. He loves a good news story more than he loves me . . . us!”

  I almost waver in my resolve, but I stand strong against her indignation. “You should have told me he was here,” I insist, softer this time.

  She seems suddenly deflated. She sinks down on my bed. “Yes, I should have,” she admits. “I was going to, as soon as we settled in and got rid of the jet lag and everything.”

  Worst excuse ever! I got over my jet lag days ago, and she’s been traipsing around town with this Sohail person. I cross my arms across my chest to let her know I’m not fooled.

  She continues with an earnest look, reaching out a hand to me. “Also, in my defense, I didn’t know where he’d gone until much later. He’s been traveling constantly, as far as I know, going from one dangerous region to another. I didn’t know he was in Karachi until very recently, when your nani told me on Skype about an article she’d read in Dawn. Believe it or not, I was too busy trying to keep our lives afloat to track that deadbeat’s movements.”

  Dawn! That was one of the newspapers Sakina mentioned. Could it be Dad’s paper? I sit down next to Mom, taking care to keep my distance. “Why did we come here, Mom, really?” I ask gently. “Because of Dad?”

  She recoils from me as if I’ve said the words poop, fart, and pee all together in the same sentence. “No! Never!” she exclaims in anger.

  “Then why?”

  She stands up, a hard look on her face. “I thought you should get to know your grandparents. I thought it was time for me to stop fighting with my own family. Honestly, I was so busy with my job search I didn’t even remember that your . . . father . . . was here. But apparently you think everything in the world is about you!”

  I watch her stomp out of Uncle Faizan’s room with angry steps.

  Dear Dad,

  This is going to be very short. I am hopping mad, as my neighbor Mrs. Peabody says. I recently found out Mom’s biggest secret. I’m still processing it, but I’ll be sure to tell you soon enough. When I found out, she got super mad, although I should be the only one who’s mad right now. Isn’t that typical Mom?

  One more thing. I finally see the resemblance between Mom and Nani. They can both get pretty furious, pretty fast.

  Mimi

  16

  Sakina

  The Evil Witch

  Begum Sahiba is furious, and it’s all my fault. I knead the dough for parathas with qui
ck, desperate hands as she looms over me, frothing at the mouth. “Faster, you lazy oaf! You were supposed to have kneaded this dough an hour ago! It’s after twelve now. What have you been doing all this time?”

  I’d been practicing English by myself in the shed outside, sounding out sentences Mimi had written down for me at our first lesson. The words were lumpy and uncertain in my mouth, like a food I’ve never tasted before. Would you like some sugar in your tea? It looks like it will rain tomorrow, so you should take an umbrella. But the thrill of taming them made me forget all about the time. Made me forget I was a servant bound by my duties, and learning a new language is not supposed to be on my priority list at all.

  Begum Sahiba’s shrieking pushed me out of the shed and into the kitchen, horrified. I’d forgotten to knead the dough for the potato-filled parathas Abba was making for lunch. Abba should have reminded me, sure, but he isn’t feeling his best these days. I’ve noticed he looks more tired after small tasks. At the moment, he’s sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen, eyes closed, head resting against the wall, breathing shallow puffs.

  I sneak little peeks at him as I knead the dough. The lady-dragon raps my head with her hand. “Stop looking here and there! Work faster. This dough needed to chill. You know that, silly fool!”

  I agree with her secretly. If the parathas aren’t as good as they should be because Abba used warm dough, I’ll be in for an even bigger scolding. I think quickly. “I could make some chaat while the dough cools,” I say. “Just a noon snack so that nobody will mind if lunch is a little late.”

  She glares at me. She’s wearing a blood-red sari with a pattern of black flowers all over. “Hmph, chaat!” she huffs, but I can see she’s listening.

  “Some nice chaat with the special masala you like,” I add, wiping my forehead with my sleeve. “And also maybe some homemade potato chips and ketchup for Mimi.”

  Begum Sahiba glares at me again but walks away toward the kitchen door. “Hurry up and finish the dough, then get to work on the chaat,” she barks. “I’ll let everyone know there’s going to be special snacks in fifteen minutes.”

  There’s no way I can have the snacks ready in fifteen minutes, but I nod and pummel the dough with both hands. Abba groans from the corner and Begum Sahiba stops. “Is he all right? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing. He’s just tired,” I answer quickly, hoping it’s the truth.

  She looks at Abba for a long minute. “We have guests here, Ejaz. You can’t afford to get sick, you hear me?” she tells him, but her voice is soft, almost concerned. Am I hearing her correctly?

  He nods and smiles. “I’m perfectly fine, Begum Sahiba. The parathas will be ready at two o’clock sharp.”

  He does seem better. Maybe all he needed was a bit of rest. Begum Sahiba leaves with a parting reminder: “Tell Tahira to help you with the cooking today. Let your abba rest.”

  I try not to let my mouth hang open with shock. “Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, knowing I’ll never ask Tahira. Her annoying stories and repeated questions will only add to my frustration. Abba has trained me well; I can handle a day of cooking without his help if need be. I pat the dough into a metal container, wrap it with plastic, and put it in the fridge to cool. Then I get to work on the chaat, mixing boiled chickpeas, potatoes, and spices together with lemon juice and vinegar for a tasty snack. After a while, Abba gets up and joins me at the stove, frying potato chips by my side.

  “You don’t have to, Abba,” I protest. I don’t want him collapsing on me.

  He waves me away. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine now. Let me help you.”

  I still remember the first time Abba and I cooked together. I was almost seven, and he took me to his job. Amma wasn’t pleased, because I usually helped her in the house.

  “You can do without her for a day,” Abba told her, grinning. He was always grinning, always happy. Still is. With all the hardships he’s witnessed in his life, I find that incredible.

  I snuggled behind him on his motorcycle all the way to the house. It was a single-story villa, with a mother, a father, and a houseful of children. “I’ll get to work on the family’s lunch,” Abba told me when we got there. “You chop some vegetables for the salad.”

  I wonder now at my seven-year-old self, using knives and china plates. Amma never let me use a knife at home. If your hand slips, there will be lots of blood, she always warned, making me wonder if it was out of concern for me or her own distaste at the sight of blood. But Abba thought I was a big girl. He clapped after I finished chopping all the lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes. He hugged me when I washed the knife carefully and put it away. Then he called me to the stove.

  “Come. This will be your very first cooking lesson,” he told me in a low voice, full of joy and expectation. He dragged a stool right next to him and pointed to it.

  I joined him at the stove—it was a small one, not half as fancy as the steel giant in Begum Sahiba’s kitchen—and watched as he stirred a pot full of chicken curry. He handed me the spoon. “You stir while I pour in the yogurt,” he said.

  I watched as he dropped clumps of white yogurt into the chicken. Then I carefully stirred and mixed the chicken together until it was blended well. I stood by his side and we watched the curry bubble merrily, thin streams of tangy flavor tickling my nostrils and making me breathe deep. I don’t remember how long we stood together, staring at our creation. After a while, I got tired and rested my head against his shoulder, and he put his arm around me.

  “How would you like to cook with me every day?” he asked, and I nodded so vigorously we bumped heads. “Uff! I suppose that means yes!”

  Now, standing together in Begum Sahiba’s kitchen, I wonder if Abba remembers that scene from so long ago. “You got lucky this time with Begum Sahiba,” he tells me, and his voice is gruff. “She’s not always so understanding.”

  I roll my eyes, but only because he’s looking elsewhere. “So what else is new?”

  He shakes his head. “She’s not so bad, you know. You just have to get to know her. She’s got a kind heart underneath all that anger.”

  “If you say so.”

  He looks at me, suddenly serious. “What were you doing outside all morning anyway?”

  I want to tell him so badly my heart thumps. He’s always encouraged me to do my best, to be better than this life I’ve been born into. But leaving the job to study in a school will be unacceptable to him, I know. “Nothing,” I mutter. “Mimi gave me some things to look at.”

  “You and Maryam Ji get along well, eh?”

  I focus on the chaat. It needs a sprinkling of black pepper, perhaps some more salt. “She’s okay. A bit spoiled and clueless, but that’s to be expected.”

  He chortles. “I’m happy you’ve found a friend your age. She looks like a good girl.”

  I remember the conversation in the bathroom the day before, Mimi’s crumpled, anxious face. “She’s lonely, I think,” I tell him. “Imagine not having an abba to hug every night.”

  He smiles at me, his face creasing into the lines I know so well. “Why don’t you take her out to visit a few places? I’m sure Sahib Ji will allow you to go with Malik in the mornings. He’s very trustworthy. He’s been with the family since he was a teenager.”

  My hands stop midair. “What about cooking?”

  He waves me away. “I think Begum Sahiba will be very happy to spare you for a few weeks, if it means entertaining her granddaughter.”

  I doubt that Begum Sahiba can scrounge up even an ounce of generosity or kindness, but I take his word for it. He’s looking very confident. “I’ll talk to her,” he adds.

  The chips are done, and he takes the sizzling wok off the stove. “Hand me that newspaper from the pantry, will you? There’s a stack of old ones lying on the upper shelf.”

  Newspapers? I rummage in the pantry, thinking about Mimi’s father, about Mimi’s request to find her old newspapers. Abba’s holding out an impatient hand, and I hurry to him. Th
e oil from the chips needs to be absorbed in paper, an old kitchen trick from his food cart days.

  Abba loads the snacks on a tray as I go back to the pantry. The stack of newspapers is half a mile high at the back. Mimi’s anxious face and red eyes loom in my mind. This is turning out to be an excellent day, despite all of Begum Sahiba’s shouting.

  17

  Mimi

  A Stranger in My Own Land

  “We’re going sightseeing!” Sakina announces the next day as she clears away the breakfast plates.

  I’m busy inhaling my fifth (or is it sixth?) French toast cooked desi-style in fresh ghee, so I think I haven’t heard her correctly. “Going where?”

  She stops, uncertain. “Isn’t that what you say? Sightseeing? When you want to see the sights?”

  I nod, remembering my pledge to be her teacher. In the avalanche of emotions of the previous few days, I’ve forgotten about her English lessons. “Oh yeah, that’s absolutely correct. Good job!” Then I pause. “What sights? I didn’t know there were any sights to see in Karachi.”

  She frowns, her mouth a silent slash against her cheekbones. “Of course,” she says, as if I’m stupid. “There are many, many sights. So many!” She raises her arms wide to encompass the entire dining room. The dishes clang in protest.

  I look around the room. The rest of the family has already retired to their rooms, doing whatever they do after a coma-inducing breakfast. “Okay,” I say, slowly. “But I have a ton of questions. How will we go? Who will take us? And will you go as well? What about your job? Is this your idea, or will Nani be shouting again?”

  A panicked look spreads across her face. “Stop! You’re speaking too fast!” she tells me frantically. “One at a time, please?”

  I take deep breaths. The thought of escaping this mansion and sightseeing in fresh air has made me a bit dizzy. “Did. You. Ask. Anyone’s. Permission. About. This?” I enunciate. “And by anyone, I mean Nani, obviously.”